In a quiet, Southern California residential neighborhood, in a basement converted into a dungeon of depravity, victims are starved, tortured, raped and dismembered…
Translation: this one is not for the faint of heart, nor the weak of belly. Foretold is forewarned.
I started LUSTMORD: Anatomy of a Serial Butcher back in 1987, and it is January 17, 2013, as I write this. How many years is that? Twenty-six? Give or take. I say give or take because somewhere in there, during the mid 1990s, I had to lay off the thing for about five years. Why? Nightmares. Cold sweats. Unable to sleep. Why? Subject matter. Some of it was too damn horrific and the images wouldn’t go away at the end of the day. Five years. Not to mention another three years when I could only face the book for about four or five months at a time. The shit was sick and depraved. Fucking brutal. I needed a break.
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